The Rudolf Steiner Archive

A Meditative Approach to the Study of Man IV

[ 1 ] When we consider the human being in terms of his constitution and then apply this insight to the developing human being—to the child—the following becomes clear: From the spiritual worlds, I might say on a kind of astral wing, the human “I” comes forth. When we first observe the child in the early years of life—how it develops, how, step by step, it brings its physiognomy from its deepest inner being to the surface of the body, how it gains more and more control over its organism—what we see there is essentially the incorporation of the “I.” When we consider this embodiment of the “I,” we can characterize what is actually taking place in various ways, and you are already familiar with two main ways of characterizing it.

[ 2 ] Recently, I have spoken more about how, with the change of teeth, that which has an organizing function in the physical body emancipates itself, emerges during the change of teeth, and essentially forms the intelligence. This is one way to describe the process from a certain perspective. It can also be described as it was in earlier times, when the material for understanding the human being was presented from a different perspective and it was said: With the change of teeth, the human etheric body is born; the human physical body is born at birth, the etheric body around the age of 7. What can be called, on the one hand, the birth of the etheric body is the same thing that can be called, on the other hand, the emancipation of the intellect from the physical body. It is merely a two-sided description of the same fact. It is, in essence, only truly grasped when we synthesize these two perspectives in this way. In spiritual science, one can only characterize a subject by approaching it from various angles and then synthesizing the resulting different perspectives. Just as a melody cannot be expressed in a single note, so too can the content of spiritual science not be encompassed by a single characteristic; you must consider it from various angles. This is what people in earlier times, who truly understood it, called “hearing the whole picture”—hearing the various explanations together.

[ 3 ] Well, what happens next? Into that which is actually being liberated—whether we call it the etheric body or intelligence—the “I,” which has already descended at birth, flows in, as it were, and gradually reorganizes it; so that during this time there is a intertwining of the eternal “I” with what is forming there: the intelligence that is becoming free, the etheric body that is being born.

[ 4 ] And when we then consider the next period, the time from age 7 to 14—that is, until sexual maturity—we can again say, from one perspective, that a volitional element, a musical element, is, so to speak, absorbed. This process is best described from one perspective by saying “absorbed,” for it is the musical element that actually lies in the external world. However, what is absorbed there in terms of music and sound is permeated by the astral body. Through this, the astral body is emancipated from the connection it previously had with the entire organism. We can therefore also say, from the other perspective, with regard to the child: With sexual maturity comes the birth of the astral body. — But once again, it is the “I” that now, as the eternal, unites with what is emancipating itself; so that from birth through sexual maturity—that is, through the end of elementary school and even beyond—we have a continuous process of the “I” establishing itself within the entire human organism. From the age of seven onward, the “I” establishes itself solely in the etheric body; but before that, when the human being is an imitator, it is precisely through this imitative activity that the “I” anchors itself in the physical body; and then later, even after sexual maturity, the “I” anchors itself in the astral body. Thus, there is a continuous permeation of the human organism by the “I,” which takes the concrete form I have described.

[ 5 ] This entire world of facts is of immense significance for the educator. For, fundamentally speaking, all education and instruction should, in a sense, be artistic—as I hinted at in the essay on the artistic element in education in the latest issue of Soziale Zukunft — in such a way that it always keeps in mind this process of integrating the “I” into the broader human organization, as I have just described; the process of integrating the “I” into the human organization should be guided by an artistic form of education. What is meant by this?

[ 6 ] What this means is that, for example, the “I” must not, so to speak, penetrate too deeply into the physical body, the etheric body, and the astral body; nor, however, must it be kept too far outside. — If it becomes too deeply embedded in the human organism, if it connects too intensely with it, then the human being becomes too material a being; he then thinks only with the brain, is entirely dependent on his organism—in short, he becomes too much body; the “I” is absorbed too strongly by the organism. We must avoid this. Through education, we must strive to avoid anything that allows the “I” to be absorbed too strongly by the physical body, making it too dependent on it. You will understand the full gravity of this matter when I say that the nature of many criminals and many brutal people lies in the fact that they allowed the “I” to be absorbed too strongly during their formative years. What the anthropologist then identifies in such a person as the signs of degeneration—which you are familiar with and which are found in criminals—very often turns out—and this becomes fully apparent only in later years—to be an excessive absorption of the “I” by the rest of the organism. And even if a person is born [with an occipital lobe that is too small], it is all the more necessary that we take special care to ensure that the ego does not sink too deeply into the rest of the organism. For through proper, artistic educational methods, we can prevent the ego from sinking too deeply into the organism in a person showing signs of degeneration; in this way, we protect them from becoming a criminal.

[ 7 ] On the other hand, however, we can also fall into the opposite error. There is a difficulty here. Just as one can place a weight that is too small or too large on a scale—if the weight is too small, the other pan does not rise; if it is too large, it rises too high, and we must first readjust the balance—so, too, when faced with the facts of life, we are confronted with a similar reality. The realm of reality can never be confined to rigid concepts; whenever one tries to correct one mistake, one can easily fall into another. Therefore, when it comes to children, it is absolutely essential—given the intimate nature of life—that we never emphasize one aspect or the other too strongly, but rather maintain a sense that education requires an artistic balance. For if one does not ensure that the ego connects properly with the organism, it may remain too detached from it, with the result that the person becomes a dreamer or a fantasist—or, indeed, becomes unfit for life altogether by indulging in fantastical notions. This is the other mistake: allowing the ego to become insufficiently integrated into the organism. And even those who, as children, show a predisposition toward fanciful idealism, false romanticism, or theosophy in the wrong sense can be protected from this in later life by the educator, provided care is taken to ensure that the ego does not remain too detached from the rest of the organism, but rather permeates it in the proper way. If one finds in children the well-known theosophical trait—a small bump situated slightly behind the forehead and rising a little—the well-known theosophical trait that all those with a theosophical predisposition are born with— then we must be careful with such children to avoid a tendency toward fanciful idealism and false romanticism by pressing the “I” more firmly into the organism. But how do we accomplish both of these things?

[ 8 ] We can take steps in this direction by familiarizing ourselves with the tools we can use to accomplish this, which are as follows: Everything that constitutes geometry and arithmetic—which requires a person to form numerical and spatial concepts—contributes, when absorbed and processed by the child in the context of instruction and education, to the ego becoming integrated into the organism. Likewise, everything in language that tends toward the musical—that is, the rhythmic-recitative and so on—contributes to the “I” becoming properly integrated into the organism. Music, particularly when used to develop a child’s ear for melody—that is, primarily the ability to recall musical elements—in a child who is somewhat prone to daydreaming, will have an extraordinarily beneficial effect on such a child. These are the methods we must use with a child in whom we notice that the “I” is reluctant to integrate fully into the organism—a child who might otherwise remain somewhat prone to daydreaming. And the moment we notice that the child is becoming too materialistic, that the ego is becoming too dependent on the body, we need only have the child draw, in geometry, the figures that are otherwise grasped by thought. The moment we have the child draw geometric shapes, we create a counterbalance to the ego’s absorption into the body. As you can see, it is entirely possible to educate children properly if one uses the subject matter in the right way.

[ 9 ] If we notice that a child—who, due to natural aptitude or other circumstances, should primarily be instructed in music—is becoming too dependent on their physical body, introducing a heavy element into their singing, then we must try to guide them toward listening in the moment and rely less on tone memory. We can therefore attempt to regulate in every area: on the one hand, through the methods I have described, to help the child absorb the “I”; on the other hand, however, also to prevent the “I” from being absorbed too strongly if we have not maintained the proper balance between the extremes. — In language instruction, it is particularly beneficial when we try to exert a regulating influence. Everything musical about language contributes to allowing the “I” to be absorbed. If I notice that this is happening too strongly with a child, I try to do something with them that focuses more on the meaning and content of language. I then engage with the child in such a way that I draw their attention to things that focus more on meaning. If, on the other hand, I notice that the child is becoming too dreamy, I try to encourage them to focus more on the recitative, rhythmic, and metered aspects of language. As an educator, one must master this artistically, and in doing so, one can bring it to a certain level of effectiveness.

[ 10 ] However, there are subjects of study that are particularly effective in preventing the ego from becoming overly absorbed by the rest of the organism. These are, first and foremost, geography, history, and everything related to the visual arts and drawing. This is made possible in an outstanding way, for example, when historical events are presented narratively—and this is the key point—in such a way that the child becomes deeply emotionally invested in the story, developing strong emotional ties to the characters, admiration for them, or—if the character being described is one worthy of hatred—hatred as well. In this way, history instruction makes a particularly significant contribution to ensuring that the child does not become too materialistic. And if, through insight into the child’s development—which one must also acquire—one gains the impression that an excess of such history instruction has tipped the child slightly toward the fanciful, one notices: the child is beginning to get a little carried away—then one must try something else. And all of this must now be integrated into the curriculum. One must begin this at the right age, and that is why it is good to keep an eye on such a child as they grow. If one sees that a child is becoming too dreamy-eyed through the telling of history, then—when the time is right—one must interweave the history with ideas and the broader contexts. In short: The individual treatment of this or that event or historical figure prevents the child from becoming too absorbed in the physicality of the “I”; interweaving history with ideas that span entire historical periods fosters the development of the “I.”

[ 11 ] And again: through a great deal of drawing and artistic activity, the “I” can very easily be separated from the organism, and this can also make the child become overly enthusiastic. The remedy is immediately at hand: with such a child who becomes overly enthusiastic about drawing, painting, or even writing, one should try to help them make meaningful sense of what they have drawn—for example, by having the child draw a rosette while encouraging them to think about it, or by having them admire the shape of a letter, bringing it into their conscious awareness, and so on. While the child becomes carried away by the mere act of writing and drawing, it finds its center by contemplating what has been drawn and written.

[ 12 ] These are the kinds of things that show us how we can use these details of instruction—in an educational and instructive way—in the right manner, if we truly draw them from the artistic realm. It is especially important that we truly engage with such things. Take geography lessons, for example. In general, they help prevent the “I” from being too strongly absorbed by the organism, so we can make good use of them with a child who is in danger of becoming too materialistic by directing such a child more toward engaging with geographical topics. But on the other hand, by emphasizing in geography, for example, that the child grasp differences in elevation, or by incorporating into geography elements that require more geometric thinking, we can—if the child threatens to become overly enthusiastic due to geography lessons—reintroduce the “I” in an appropriate manner.

[ 13 ] These are things whose full value can only be appreciated when one is able to delve into this marvelous structure of the human organism and its harmony with the entire universe. Just consider this: based on what we have examined, the child’s development from birth to sexual maturity is an interplay between the cosmic-plastic force and the cosmic-musical force. This interplay, of course, occurs in the most diverse variations. And if you consider the human constitution—I believe I have already alluded to this important point in another context, but I would like to mention it here because it can be very useful—you will find, on the one hand, the physical body and the etheric body; the two do not separate from one another in the period between birth and death; in a certain sense, they remain continuously united between birth and death. In contrast, the physical body and the etheric body separate from the astral body—that is, first the etheric body from the astral body—when one falls asleep, and upon waking they reunite. Thus, the etheric body and the astral body are less closely bound to one another than, for example, the physical body and the etheric body; likewise, the “I” and the astral body are closely connected, for they do not separate while a person sleeps. Indeed, what is a human being on Earth through his physical body? He is a being who lives in intimate interaction with the surrounding air. A certain amount of air is, in relation to our physical body, sometimes inside, sometimes outside; we inhale, we exhale. This inhalation and exhalation, of course, reveals a subtle difference between the waking and sleeping states of the human being. There is a subtle difference here, and for the great events, these subtle differences are often more significant than the others. What takes place in this regard during the waking state through the interaction between the astral body and the etheric body also takes place in the sleeping human being. What interplays there between the musical element and the plastic element during the course of human development is at the same time a continuous intervibration of the astral body—in which the “I” vibrates along with it—and the etheric body—in which the physical body vibrates along with it. After all, when a person falls asleep in the evening, they essentially inhale their “I” and their astral body from the morning, and exhale them again as they fall asleep. This is a kind of grand breathing process that we can contrast with the smaller breathing process. So, in fact, every time we fall asleep, we step out of our physical and etheric bodies and enter into a more intimate relationship with the surrounding air, because we are then directly present within the air with our “I” and astral body. While awake, we direct our breathing from within, and while asleep, we direct it from without, from the soul. On the one hand, you can see from the fact that the air—or a certain quantity of it—is sometimes outside and sometimes inside the human organism, and on the other hand, that the entire human constitution, from the physical body up to the “I,” is involved in the breathing process; from this you can see that, for the human being, it is essential to clearly grasp the interrelationship that actually exists between the human constitution and the air.

[ 14 ] Well, you’ve all studied a little physics and will recall how much effort teachers—if they’re at all conscientious—usually go to in explaining to children or young people that air, which consists of oxygen and nitrogen, is not actually a chemical compound, but rather a kind of mixture. So when we consider the air, oxygen and nitrogen are present in it in such a combination that it does not amount to a chemical compound, but rather in a looser combination than a chemical compound. How does this relate to human beings? It relates to human beings in that it is the cosmic reflection of the fact that the astral body and the etheric body in human beings are in a looser connection. If oxygen and nitrogen in the air were in a chemical compound—if they were chemically bound to one another—then the etheric body and the astral body would also be so tightly bound that they could not separate, so that we would never be able to fall asleep. What we experience internally as the relationship between the astral body and the etheric body is reflected in the external composition of the air; and conversely, the external composition of the air—the mixture of oxygen and nitrogen—is reflected internally in the relationship between the etheric body and the astral body within the human organism. Thus, the human being is organized in relation to the cosmos. Thus, he is inwardly a microcosm, except that certain things which are arranged more on the physical side externally are arranged more on the soul side within him: externally, we are dealing with a physical law governing the relationship between oxygen and nitrogen; internally, with a soul law governing the relationship between the etheric body and the astral body. And when we observe the human being in this way—how he breathes, how within this there are the wondrous vibrations that we characterize as light vibrations—we can observe this, if we are students of spiritual science— we observe an interweaving of astral and etheric vibrations; we can view this, on the one hand, as it occurs within the human organism, and on the other hand, as it occurs one level deeper in the physical process of inhalation and exhalation. When we observe such a process, we can literally see how the human being, as a spiritual-soul being, continually detaches itself from its physical environment—much like in a mixture, where the heavier parts fall downward, separating from the mixture, while the lighter parts remain above. Such processes take place in the most manifold ways within the human being itself. But we must incorporate them into what we, so to speak, hear, take in, and perceive, so that we can then understand them and, through meditative recollection, translate them into artistic pedagogy, just as I described yesterday.

[ 15 ] Now we must consider something else in this regard. What, exactly, does our “I” bring with it on its descent from the spiritual world into the physical world through birth? It is the head that carries it in. The head is, so to speak, the vehicle in which the “I” enters the physical world. And once it has entered, it also transforms its entire state of being during the transition from the spiritual to the physical world. As paradoxical as it may at first seem to someone who views things from the outside: in the spiritual world, before we set out to be born here, we are actually in a state of constant motion, and motion is our true element there. If we were to want to continue this motion, we would never be able to enter the physical world. And we are protected from continuing it by the fact that our head structure adapts to the rest of the organism, so that, in a sense, our head structure becomes the vehicle on which we enter the physical world—but which then comes to a standstill once it has entered, and rests comfortably upon the rest of the organism. And even when the rest of the organism is in motion, the head does not participate in this. Just as a person riding in a carriage or on a train is at rest, so too has the “I,” which is in motion before birth, come to rest once it has descended into the physical world, and no longer makes the movements it made before. This points to something extraordinarily important.

[ 16 ] When today’s embryologist studies the development of the human embryo in the womb, he observes how the head is initially large and well-formed in relation to the other limbs, which are still clumsy and unformed compared to it and only develop properly later on. But he regards it as if everything were of equal importance. The entire embryological perspective is actually quite nonsensical—so nonsensical, in fact, that it is actually difficult to communicate with a modern physiologist, for he thinks in an entirely different realm. What matters is that fertilization essentially exerts an effect only on the nature of the limbs—on the “non-head” aspects of the human being; for the human head is essentially shaped not by the man, but by the entire cosmos. The human head is not actually conceived by the man, but is conceived by the cosmos. The predisposition for the human head is already present in the unfertilized human germ; and the influence on the head—which, in the unfertilized human germ, is actually still a cosmic one—comes about because fertilization initially acts upon the rest of the organism, and only as the organism develops do the influences of the rest of the organism act back upon the head during embryonic development. So that—even when we study the development of the human embryo purely from an external, embryological perspective—if we study the matter correctly, we can see how the head is prepared from within the mother’s body, not yet under the direct influence of the fertilizing forces, but indirectly; it is just as if a carriage were being prepared in a workshop to carry a human being: they move toward one another—just as the head is prepared so that it may receive the descending human being into itself according to its “I.” And long after birth, indeed, essentially throughout the entire period of development, the human being bears within themselves the trace of this convergence of the human organization and the cosmic organization.

[ 17 ] Once the spirit of such a pedagogy—as we actually practice it here—has truly, I might say, become ingrained in the inner habits of the educators, then one thing will become apparent: Those who stand before a class will be profoundly captivated by what happens to the individual children as a result of the fact that, from ages 7 to 14, a strict distinction must still be made—though only for the purpose of close observation—between a certain retreat in the mind, a certain ebbing away of a superhuman organization, and a certain flooding of the head with what streams up from the rest of the organism, pouring upward. They must, in a certain way, consider this together with what was said in the first and second lessons, because the one must be balanced against the other in a certain relationship. But it must always be interesting to observe the difference in the child’s head structure compared to the form of the rest of the organism. One simply has to view the two differently. If one wants to observe the changes taking place in the head, one must think of oneself as a sculptor; if, on the other hand, one wants to observe the changes taking place in the rest of the organism, then one must think of oneself as a eurythmy musician. For as regards the rest of the organism, it is of no value to observe, for example, how the fingers grow and so on, but rather to pay attention to how the nature of the movements the child performs changes. This does indeed have an effect on the form of the organism, though not through the physical structures themselves, but through the dynamic aspects. If someone has extremely long legs or arms, these are heavier than under normal circumstances. It is not the form that acts directly, but the weight with which it acts, and that weight then becomes interwoven with the musical shaping of movement. And if one wishes to assess such a person—whose arms and legs have grown too long, so that they do not know what to do with them—in the right way, one must approach the matter with a musical assessment of life and must sense: how the child’s legs, having grown too long, are constantly crossing over one another, how the movement becomes abnormal, or how the arms are constantly at a loss as to what they are actually supposed to do, because the weight in them exerts too strong an influence. Just think how intimately one gets to know a person from the perspective of spiritual science when applying such insights! One will then no longer view many things from an emotional perspective, as one might have done before. One will say to oneself, when someone has small hands and small arms: There is far less of an inner urge to immediately strike the other person. But on the other hand, when someone has arms and hands that are too long and too heavy, one must attribute that inner urge to immediately strike the other person to karmic causes, and not view it from an external, emotional perspective.

[ 18 ] This is something that brings us much closer to human beings—especially the developing human being—when we consider such a thing. For there is a mystery here that is very remarkable. When you look at the human form in this way, you can say to yourself: I am unraveling the process of human development, the entire structure of the soul, from this physical organization; I am unraveling the significance of a certain head shape, a certain heaviness of the arms and legs and so on, a certain way of walking—whether the person in question is more inclined to walk on their toes, or more—as was the case with Fichte, whose entire figure is an imprint of this—to walk on their heels. All of this reveals an immense amount to us, which can give us the feeling: You get to know the person better. Of course, this does not involve any particular intimacies, but rather something we show toward one another in human and social interaction, which is only more intimate in the educational context of the interaction between the educator and the child. When we stand face to face with a person, we truly get the sense that: you come to know one aspect of them when you look at this person from the front—for what you can see is musically imprinted upon you; you come to know another aspect when you can truly look at them from behind. One should also form one’s life principles from the very essence of life. If, for example, a student with sound life principles had been sitting in a lecture by Fichte, he would have listened to Fichte from the front in order to take in what he was saying. But to get to know Fichte’s character, he would have observed him from behind to understand his entire manner of presentation. The shape of the back of Fichte’s head, the structure of his back and hump, the way he moved his hands, and his entire posture—these were the features that, when one focused on his personal being, compelled one to see in him exactly what he had set out to be in the world.

[ 19 ] Getting to know children in this way can reveal some curious things; if the teacher is someone who, in this regard, tends more toward a karmic understanding and less toward the approach of a teacher who taught in such a way that he became terribly annoyed with an emotional child, repeatedly admonished the child to stay calm, to remain composed, and kept telling the child, “Be quiet, be quiet, calm, but finally, because it annoyed him too much, reached for the milk jug, threw it at the child’s head, and said: “I’ll show you how to be calm!” — I’m characterizing this somewhat radically; but even in a slightly less radical form, it is still something that we, as teachers and educators, must recognize as wrong.

[ 20 ] If we move away from this and focus our anthroposophical understanding of human nature more on what I have described—namely, the child’s development—so that the child’s organism reveals something of its soul’s constitution to us, then we engage with the child in a different way than we usually do. And curiously enough, by approaching the child in this way, we develop love for the child within ourselves, so that we come to embrace the child with ever greater love. And it is precisely through this that we acquire a powerful aid for lovingly teaching and raising the child. These are the paths through which we, as educators and teachers, particularly acquire the right feelings and sensibilities, as I have just attempted to describe. For it would be a completely wrong method if, for example, someone who wanted to become a composer were to pick up a theoretical textbook on music and believe that he could learn to compose through it, or if someone were to pick up any book on aesthetics, absorb what it says about painting and so on, and believe that he could become a painter through it. That won’t make him a painter; rather, he becomes a painter when he learns to handle colors, when he learns the techniques for working with colors, and so on. And one becomes a sculptor by learning to grasp the organism in its forms. It is, after all, tremendously interesting to grasp the organism in its forms, even in the sculptural arts, for example. You have a completely different feeling when, as a sculptor, you shape a head, or when you shape the rest of the organism. With the head, you constantly have the feeling that the head is acting upon you from within; you feel as though you must recoil from the formation of the head; something about it pushes you away. When, on the other hand, you sculpt the rest of the body, you have the feeling that you are pressing in, while the rest of the body recedes before you. So you have exactly the opposite feeling when sculpting the head versus the rest of the body. This shows us that we must learn the appropriate approach in every situation. — But it is the same with education. If you were to try to learn from a handbook on pedagogy what you want to do in school, it would be just as if you were to try to become a painter by studying a handbook on aesthetics. Nothing will come of it. But if you study anthroposophical anthropology as outlined in the guidelines—as we are now accustomed to doing here—then your own pedagogical talent will emerge; for far more people have a natural aptitude for this than you might think. And then you will also acquire certain qualities that are essential for a teacher who wants to be a true teacher.

[ 21 ] In no other field today is there more meaningless drivel spouted—despite the fact that so many people take an extraordinary interest in it—than in the field of education. When people talk about educational matters today, it feels so bad because these matters affect the next generation. But as in so many fields, it is especially true here that one can rise above the tirades spoken by laypeople through a deeper understanding of human nature. Even teachers have adopted this tirade: that lessons must be a source of joy for the children. We do not take offense when this is said by laypeople; it is well-intentioned. But it is to be strongly condemned when professional teachers and educators perpetuate this cliché! For, just reflect on practical experience and ask yourself: when it comes to certain things that are difficult to overcome, how are you, as a teacher, supposed to handle them so that it is pure, bright joy for the children? Or consider certain childhood dispositions and ask yourself: how are you supposed to ensure that a child—who is at school from morning till night—is always and only joyful, always and only joyful? It simply isn’t feasible. It’s just one of those clichés uttered by people who are out of touch with reality; just as there are clichés everywhere today in other areas that come from people who are themselves out of touch with reality. The fact is simply this: certain things do not bring children joy, yet these things must be done nonetheless. If the teacher were to try to make everything a source of joy for the children, then, for example, the child’s sense of duty—which can only be developed through overcoming challenges—would not be able to develop. That would not be beneficial. So it cannot be a matter of nothing but joy; rather, it is about something entirely different: that through our pedagogical art we truly earn the children’s love, so that under our guidance they will even do what does not bring them joy, but rather causes them reluctance and a slight pain. Therefore, you must tell yourself: If the right kind of love is instilled—if we succeed in teaching the child the right kind of love—then something other than joy develops in the child; then attachment to the teacher develops; then the child has a different feeling. Then the child feels: Some things are difficult, but with this teacher, I’ll do even the things that are difficult.

[ 22 ] These are things that can show us how we can overcome even some of the difficulties in the classroom by understanding how to establish the right relationship between teacher and student. It is simply a different way of looking at things than what is usually said about teaching and education from a layperson’s perspective.

[ 23 ] My dear friends, this time we will no longer be able to gather for a meditation. We have endless meetings ahead of us. We will only come together for a teachers’ conference.